


at the furthest, far

by ethia



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: 14k wtf idk, 1994, 2nd person POV, College AU, Harold is the king of mixed signals, I still love these boys far too much, John has the patience of a saint, M/M, MIT ftw, Pining with a capital p, propriety what
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-15
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-26 13:00:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5005750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethia/pseuds/ethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's foolish, this attraction of yours, completely inappropriate, and you certainly won't act on it, because that's the right thing to do. It's as easy as that.</p><p> </p><p>  <b> WIP.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September (I)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters.
> 
> WIP warning! Rated M for later chapters.

You thought it would feel weird to be back on campus, old days long gone past. A stranger lost in time, awash on a foreign shore.

But all the familiar landmarks are still there, stirring your memories, pointing you the right way. The sun's painting long shadows on the ground, a mild breeze rustling through the treetops, flecked with spots of rust and gold, the first whispers of autumn calling ahead. You take your time as you walk, taking in the bustle of students milling about, small groups abuzz with laughter and nervous energy, ready to start a fresh term or take the first steps into their new, academic life.

So many things yet to learn.

And that, too, feels familiar, the excitement crackling under your skin, that breathless moment of being on the cusp of discovery.

It's good to be back.

Your new home awaits you right on the edge of campus, the last in a line of small houses nestled comfortably under the shelter of high-reaching red oaks, set back from the bustle of everyday life, a cozy little retreat.

You haven't bothered to unpack most of your things, so when Nathan and Alicia arrive with little Will in tow, you decide to settle down among the clutter of boxes in your tiny kitchen, with blankets for seats, an impromptu housewarming picnic.

Nathan greets you with a hand on your shoulder, squeezing tightly, and a _good to have you back_ that makes his eyes shine. Alicia pulls you in, smiling, her arms encasing you, light and warm, making you feel as welcome as she means you to be. Will, buoyant as ever, almost knocks you over with the exuberance of his hug, crowing _hello, Uncle Harold_ into your ear with a whoop of joy as you sweep him up for a proper embrace.

“I'll sit next to you, Uncle Harold,” he declares, and so he does, stealing all the sweet peppers from your plate with a boyish grin, the very image of his father, that same good-natured mischief you find impossible to resist.

The house should feel smaller for their presence, crowded, but it's more homely instead, warmer, ringing with laughter and a lifetime of shared memories.

There's presents, too, a bottle of Marsala that Alicia has to wrestle from Nathan's grip, her laughter ruining the sternness of her tone.

“That's for cooking,” she says, giving you a quick look, her face sobering into a more inquisitive expression. “You still like to cook, right?”

"Yes. Yes, of course," you say, inexplicably embarrassed. It's only been a few months, and it's not like everything about you has suddenly changed. "I'm sorry I didn't keep in touch."

“Don't be silly.” Alicia's face softens, and you'd forgotten how that feels, of being part of something, undemanding and accepting. Family. She hands you another package, book-shaped, wrapped in bright colors, lighter in your hand than it looks. “In any case, this is to remind you that we're only a few minutes away, and you're welcome to stop by whenever you feel like it.”

Inside is a picture of you and Will on his fifth birthday, half a year ago, and it makes you smile, that utterly focused expression on his face as he's trying to blow out all the candles on his cake in one go. It's a sudden little burst of happiness, and you berate yourself for not returning sooner.

“Thank you.” You turn the picture over in your hands, running your fingers along the chiseled wooden frame. A cherished memory, captured for you in black and white. “For everything.”

For asking you to come back. Talking you into taking on a tenure here, away from that flat in Boston, with its cloy of oppressive memories hanging over you every day.

“Hey, don't go all maudlin on us,” Nathan says, with the barest edge of concern to his teasing words. He exchanges a brief look with Alicia, who rises, her hand stretched out for Will to follow.

“Come on, buddy. Let's go find out if Uncle Harold has a bathroom where you can wash your hands.”

“Upstairs,” you say. “Don't mind the mess.”

They disappear up the narrow flight of stairs, Will racing up the wooden steps in a pounding gallop.

“I'm glad to see you finally took that ring off,” Nathan says, very softly, barely audible over the sound of running water from above.

So there it is. You haven't talked, not really, not since the divorce. Or in the months before, for that matter.

“It seemed like the right time.” Such a simple thing to say, when it's anything but.

Next to you, Nathan hums in agreement, then gently touches his paper cup to yours.

“Here's to adventures lying ahead, my friend.”

“Hear, hear.”

Much later, when you see them off, Will smiling sleepily at you from the safe cradle of his father's arms, you wonder what's ahead of you, what kind of life you're about to start.

You lock the door behind you, rolling the thought around in your head.

 

#

 

Your first class is a senior course, and you're glad of their seasoned calm, the routine approach they take to their studies by now. Not too much of that first day back to school excitement, the hum of their conversations easy and low.

It won't take much to capture their interest, keep them focused on the goal ahead, polish off the knowledge they've already gained.

You're in early, quietly watching the students as they file in in groups and pairs, carefully choosing their seats to best suit their needs. It makes you smile, the pattern of their movements, back and forth, idly discussing where best to sit.

Up in a far corner, your gaze is caught by a group of young men already seated, three of them talking animatedly, while the fourth is looking down at his notebook, his head bent in thought. As you watch, his tongue darts out to wet the tip of his pencil, a little quirk he's probably not even aware of, not unlike your habit of licking your thumb sometimes before turning a page. The gesture doesn't go unnoticed by his friends, either, and their teasing causes him to further dip his head, almost hiding his bashful smile.

It shouldn't take your breath away like it does, or make your heart flutter in your chest like a bird about to take flight, but you can't help it, as much as you can't seem to look away.

He's lovely, really, and you take it all in, the short cropped dark hair, the faint blush of color high on his cheeks, and most of all his beautifully curved lashes, unusually long in a man's face, perfectly suited to show off the sharp jut of his cheekbones. It's intoxicating, and you allow yourself this private moment of attraction, a brief, intense spike of desire at the beauty of him, a powerful rush of want.

You have to close your eyes to shake yourself out of it, remind yourself of where and who you are, and as soon as you do, it passes readily enough, quickly forgotten, disregarded for its utter lack of meaning.

When you look up again, he's talking to the man next to him, lost in their conversation, unaware.

You take a deep, steadying breath, relief pouring thickly through your veins.

No harm done.

For the rest of class, you make a point of keeping your eyes elsewhere, just to be sure.

 

#

 

The rest of the week goes by quietly, and you find yourself settling in easily enough. You put the finishing touches to your study, your books having been among the first things you unpacked, and spend hours just sitting on your leather couch, leafing through the thick volumes.

Classes come and go, a diversity of subjects from freshman to senior, and you haven't felt this alive in months, talking in front of a crowd, not simply passing on your knowledge, but trying to break them out of their stupor, make them ask questions, and find connections they'd never even thought about before.

You don't think about that young man at all.

 

#

 

By Saturday, the wind's taken on a crisper note, slipping in under the collar of your jacket and the cuffs of your shirt, making you shiver in discomfort despite the sunny day. You're surprised by how many people have come out to watch the relay practice, when the first competition is still a long way off.

You remember the days when you came here with Nathan to watch Alicia run, cheering her on from the sidelines, or watch her do laps on her own while you and Nathan discussed your latest term paper. Everything seemed easier then, with nothing to worry about but your studies, and how to make ends meet by the end of the month.

Such a long time ago.

The wind picks up but you don't feel its sharpness as much, sheltered for a while by the throng of people surrounding you. You find yourself a nice spot away from the crowd, on a bench under a huge chestnut tree, protected from the wind, offering a good view of the field while also giving you a bit of privacy.

He stands among a group of athletes, all of them dressed in light running gear, about to begin their warm-up. Tall and dark-haired, he's looking at you, across the length of the field, holding your gaze for no more than a second, enough for your eyes to meet before he ducks his head away, that same little shy motion you saw in class. It makes you ache for him, a perfect sweet little sting, and you swallow thickly around your stupid, foolish wish for him to look back at you.

A shiver runs through you, a treacherous thought of _maybe he wants you, too_ , and you rise before his eyes can find you again, your back to the field, the races forgotten.

You walk briskly, busying your mind with the coursework you've planned for the coming week, so that by the time you reach your doorway, you've almost banished the whole thing from your mind.

He's just one of your students, anyway.

As far out of your reach as he could possibly be.

 

#

 

Lust, that's all it is. A misguided stirring of affection, completely unfounded.

It certainly shouldn't keep you awake at night.

You turn over on your back, staring up into the blackness of your bedroom.

It's not like you've even talked to him. All he did was look at you while you were sitting on the sidelines.

But oh, how he looked at you. From the corner of his eye; from under those long, dark lashes of his, curving against the high rise of his cheekbones as he dipped his head, too fast for you to know if he meant anything by it.

Maybe his eyes were following you as you rose to leave, so surprised by the intensity of your reaction that the thought of sitting still suddenly became an impossibility.

Fleeing the scene, in other words.

You squeeze your eyes shut, and think about Grace. That last year with her, two lives drifting apart, until at last, there were no intersections left. Parallels that never touch, stretching into infinity. Familiarity falling away, turning to indifference, and you too immersed in your work to even notice.

Had he been aware? Caught you out?

You were so certain he hadn't seen you look on that first day of class. So confident that nothing would ever come of it. A transitory moment of weakness.

A harmless trifle, inconsequential.

Something you won't allow to happen again.

You sigh, pushing at the thought, exasperated by the futility of it, willing it away to the very back of your mind.

Distance has always been your safety option.


	2. September (II)

Nathan laughs at you when you tell him, over a glass of wine and after you beat him soundly at chess, three times in a row. He calls it an innocent infatuation, and hasn't it happened to all of us?

Has it, you wonder, looking down at the board, the rumble of Nathan's laughter teasing a smile out of you, in spite of yourself.

He's right, you decide, and let him talk you into accepting another drink even though in the morning, you're supposed to meet up with him for a nice little jog on the river bank.

“No regrets, Harold,” he says, grinning that boyish grin of his. Just like old times.

Yes, you think, taking a sip and dipping your chin in a silent salute, if only you knew how to make that work out for yourself.

 

#

 

Of course you're the one nursing a headache when he comes by to pick you up, sunrise just gone by. Humming no less, the bastard.

He claps you on the back, greeting your grumble of good morning with a knowing grin before he trots off, barely giving you the time to finish lacing up your shoes.

Fine tendrils of fog reach up from the river, wafting this way and that as you run along in the cool morning air. You suck it in deep, the chill sharp and stinging in your lungs, but each breath makes you feel lighter, your head clearer and when you reach the first mile mark, you've found your pace. The run's no longer a chore, and you find yourself enjoying the way your feet roll off the ground, steady and regular, like you could move on for as far as you can see, the horizon within your grasp.

“Better?” Nathan asks, one brow raised and you huff out a laugh, picking up your pace to signal that yes, you are.

You're not the only ones out and about so early; actually, you spot quite a lot of small groups, people chattering on as they run at an easy pace, stretching their legs before a long day spent in class. Up ahead in the mist, you can even spy a few stray students doing sprints, their speed taking them quickly out of your sight, their shapes becoming indistinct, formless like ghosts, then swallowed up by the white grain, vanished behind the lazy to and fro of a billowing curtain.

“Morning, Professors,” and you would have almost missed him, running in a group of four young men, the called-out greeting the only thing to draw your attention to him. They're going in the opposite direction, passers-by, gone as fast as they came, and he merely nods his head at you, a curt sign of recognition, student to professor, before launching back into conversation with his companions.

“Morning, boys,” Nathan calls back, and it's nothing, a chance meeting of near strangers, not even a blip on the radar.

Your infatuation dispersed, put on the shelf, something for you to smile at ruefully, if you even remember to look back at it at all.

You smile, buoyed up by a mix of elation and relief, and pick up your pace again, taking no small amount of pleasure in Nathan's startled grunt of protest.

 

#

 

"Professor Finch?"

His voice is soft, unobtrusive, as though he's hesitant to disturb you. You almost flinch, because you'd thought the class was empty, everybody gone, leaving you to pack up your things in peace.

It's him, looking at you with his head ducked, and your heart trips over itself, just the once, just one beat out of rhythm, a strange little flutter in your chest, but you shush it away, all calm and quiet.

You have never had a taste for surprises.

"Yes?" The word slips out sharper than you intended, but he just smiles, and offers you his hand.

“I'm John, John Reese. One of your students?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He's still smiling, his grip strong and sure, and he has a name now, and that was only a matter of time, anyway. “How can I help you?”

He lets go of your hand, taking a little breath, raising his chin, his gaze steady and this is the first time, you think, that you've seen such a look of confidence on his face.

It really suits him.

“I was hoping that you would consider a more in-depth discussion of this class. Maybe even have a look at my thesis proposal. If your time allows.” He's unaware, you realize, that he's doing it again, ducking his head as though to hide himself from you, from the possibility of rejection, and you have to fight the urge to take a hold of his chin, and tip it up again.

Reach out and make things better.

Or much, much worse.

But he does it himself, his eyes coming alive as he smiles again, an edge of completely unexpected humor lacing his next words. “Because you see, I don't quite agree with some of the more, uh, traditional views you presented in class today, and I thought you might be interested in having a friendly discourse. Instead of me constantly interrupting your lecture.”

“That's... very considerate of you,” and surely there is little harm in the way his words appeal to you, or the tug of your own smile in response to his. “As luck would have it, I happen to have tomorrow afternoon off. Would that agree with your schedule?”

It's probably a bad idea, but he's piqued your interest, stirred your curiosity, and you've never passed up on an opportunity for scientific debate.

Like a dog with a bone, Nathan would say.

“That will be fine,” John says, with another small smile, soft with satisfaction, and you can't say you're not looking forward to tomorrow.

 

#

 

He has interesting ideas, an inquisitive mind that won't be easily placated, challenging your views, offering fresh ones, and you find you could get used to that, discussing his papers with him in the seclusion of your study.

Not a trace of shyness about him, too; he knows how to make his point, his argumentation sound and revealing a depth of knowledge you hadn't expected.

Somehow, a cup of tea has sneaked its way into your conversation, coffee for him, the strong brew you keep a stash of on Nathan's behalf. He takes it black and sweet, and you make a note of that, just in case you'll ever have him over again.

The allotted hour goes by in a flash; it's actually him who points this out, closing his notebook, resting his fingers on the cover.

“It's been a pleasure,” he says, and it has, not at all awkward like you initially feared. “Thank you for your time, Professor.”

“Well, you're welcome, John. I think there's still time for another cup of coffee, if you'd like.”

You reach out for his cup the same moment he does, a purely instinctual gesture, and his fingers graze yours, a light and fleeting touch, his skin smooth and warm, and there's something in the way he looks at you that tells you he isn't about to apologize. That he didn't mind your accidental brush.

“No, I'm fine,” he says, holding your gaze a moment longer, something like a question in his eyes, but then he rises, and it's gone, like it's never been there in the first place, trailing a curious feeling of regret in its wake.

“I think I should leave now. I have another class starting soon.”

“I'll see you out.”

The hallway seems cramped with him inside, like there isn't enough space for two people to navigate without collision, but you're good about keeping your distance. It's become second nature to you by now, to the point where half of the time, you don't even have to think about it.

Instead, you think about offering him to have that look at his thesis he's asked you about, maybe even advise him, when you see his notebook start to slide from his bag, but you're too late to catch it in time, and it drops to the ground with a muffled thud.

“Oh,” he makes, a breathy little sound as he bends to retrieve it, squatting down so he can pick it up. You reach out to help him up, thinking nothing of it, and there you are, looking down into his upturned face, with not much of a distance left between you.

You hadn't noticed before how blue his eyes are, how clear. How _eager_.

You could bend now, easily close that gap, put your fingers lightly on his cheek and brush your mouth to his.

You could, and he'd let you.

He doesn't move, is even holding his breath and you realize he's waiting, waiting for you to come that last bit closer and take the kiss that up until now, you didn't even know you wanted so much. There's the beginning of that smile somewhere in the curve of his mouth, unsure and sweetly hopeful, and you clench your fingers at your side, and take a step back, breaking the tension, your fingers trembling with it, your heart pulsing thick and heavy in your throat.

“I was just thinking that maybe a friend of mine might be interested in becoming your thesis advisor,” and your words rush out so fast they almost take a tumble over themselves, “Dr. Ingram, Alicia, she's with the Department of Engineering, too, perhaps you've already met her?”

He busies himself fixing his scarf, his back to you, but when he turns, his expression is even, unperturbed, except for a lingering softness in his eyes.

“Dr. Ingram? I'm taking two of her classes this term. But I thought she wasn't taking on any students.”

One end of his scarf has become stuck in his jacket, but you just can't bring yourself to reach out and fix it, like you would have just a few minutes ago.

“I'll ask her. She's been busy with her family, but I happen to know she's always taken great joy in tutoring students. Very patient and much better at explaining than me. She also used to be very successful on the track and field team. ” You attempt a smile. “From what I know, you have that in common.”

“Thank you,” he says, softly. “I appreciate it.”

“It's just that I don't think I'll find the time,” you finish, and he nods, and you've never felt like this before, wanting so badly for someone to leave and stay at the same time. 

It makes you feel like the worst kind of liar.


	3. October (I)

Gusts of air keep whipping Alicia's hair about her face, but she's heedless, a muttered curse-word slipping from her lips only when the blond strands obstruct her view through the lens of her camera.

“Ah, well,” she says, putting it down with a sigh, “the light's not too good, anyway.”

“I'm sorry,” you say, leaning on the wooden banister that runs along the length of the tracks. Next to you, Alicia smiles, shaking her head, a silent _don't worry about it, Harold_. Out on the field, shadows race above the ground, cast by bulky white clouds driven across a torn-up sky, riding ahead of a ruthless breeze.

“I took a look at your student's thesis proposal. Very promising stuff. That's him over there, isn't it?”

Across the field, John's on the ground, getting his leg stretched, laughing like he doesn't have a care in the world.

"Yes.” It's his world, and you're going to make Alicia be a part of it in your stead, to further the brilliance of his mind like he deserves. Because you can't be trusted with him. “He's got a sharp mind, Alicia. Full of ideas. Dedicated. Well worth your time."

"Then maybe you should take him on, Harold."

"I don't think that's a good idea," you say, fully aware of the way she's looking at you now. Expecting you to explain, give some sort of reason. But you haven't got one. None that you're willing to share.

"Okay," she says when you fail to elaborate. There's a moment when you think she's going to ask, corner you with the inevitability of a _why not, Harold_ , but it passes and she gives a minute shrug before gently nudging your shoulder with hers. "But I will blame you if he turns out to be a nuisance."

Watching him get up off the ground, you don't think that's going to be an issue.

 

#

 

Tonight, sleep is elusive, and so you sit down in your study with a gently steaming cup of Sencha green, a blanket thrown about your shoulders for comfort, and a pile of papers for you to grade, the first of the term. They range from brilliant to boring, and by the time birdsong rises bright and clear over campus you suppress a yawn, your shoulders stiff, your thoughts adrift. Too tired to curb them in, you let them go where they will, like you've forgotten, or no longer care why you were restless, and sleep refusing to come.

There's only one place where you won't let them wander.

You don't think about John, don't imagine him sitting on your couch, his head bent in concentration as he jots down a note in his book, his dark hair tousled after he raked his hand through it, momentarily stumped in his argumentation. Not a thought in your mind of running your fingers along the graceful line of his neck, all the way up to the nape, stirring the fine hair there, your touch so light as to make him shiver, his mouth parted around a soft, involuntary sound of pleasure.

No, you don't think about that at all.

 

#

 

October arrives in a sheen of lush golden light, the trees a canopy of luminous red, a brilliant sprawl of fire lit by the autumn sun, and what a shame it would be to spend all your time indoors now.

So, every other afternoon, you go for a walk, book in hand, a destination firmly set in your mind. Your bench under the chestnut tree stands lone and abandoned more often than not, and if, every now and then, there's a training session on while you sit down to enjoy an hour of solitary reading, it's a coincidence, and nothing more.

 

#

 

It never crossed your mind that you might run into him one day, seeing as he is a regular visitor at the Ingram household now.

You're late for your appointment, a small deferment after class, and maybe so is he, being in an obvious hurry as he rushes out of the house, the door still open behind him.

He catches you by your arms before you've even fully lost your balance, steadying you, his hands running over you as though to make sure you're all right, uninjured, and you've never been this close to him, this connected.

“Sorry,” you breathe, “I'm sorry,” and he's still touching you, his head bent so incredibly close to yours that he must think about kissing you, out here in the open, and you shiver under his touch with the possibility of it, and find that you can't bring yourself to care about stopping him.

“Don't worry,” he whispers with a minute turn of his head, his voice raspy, his breath tickling your ear; his mouth, the heat of it, not quite touching but still searing you. And you crave it, his heat, his mouth, his kiss; crave it so much that you make yourself step back, shaking a little with the effort of it.

He looks at you with his head still ducked, but there's no shyness about him now; just a trace of warmth lingering around his eyes, and when he smiles, his mouth is soft with yearning and regret. You long to kiss them both away.

“Why hello, Harold,” and the moment's broken, danger averted and you should be glad, really, but you feel oddly bereft, like some fleeting thing of beauty has just been taken from you, never to return.

There's the faintest blush of color on John's cheeks as he says his goodbye, and you look after him for longer than you should before you turn to face Nathan, standing in his doorway with the blandest expression you've ever seen on his face.

You stare back at him, flustered, but not defenseless.

Drop it. It's _nothing_ , Nathan.

He's your friend, has been for so long that if he knows anything about you he will let this slide, file it away under things Harold doesn't want to talk about, ever. And so he does, with a little flourish of his head, and a muttered _goddammit, Harold_ as you pass him by. His irritation will pass quickly; it always does. He's just never taken well to being shut out, your troubles unshared with him.

“Uncle Harold, you're here!”

Will knocks into you with surprising force, having misjudged his speed, and the utterly astounded look on his face makes you laugh with genuine mirth, your previous agitation almost forgotten.

"Careful, halfling," you say with a smile, tousling his hair, and he beams, his little face aglow with the prospect of adventure as he grabs your hand and drags you forward.

"Let's build a hobbit hole! John said he would but he was too busy talking to Mommy."

"I bet now you regret ever telling him that story, hm?" Alicia steps up beside you, dressed up to the nines, smiling fondly at her son.

"I'm glad I thought to leave out the orcs, and the giant spiders," you murmur back, smiling, too. "You look beautiful, by the way."

"At least you have the decency to compliment my wife while I'm within earshot," Nathan says, sliding his arm about Alicia's waist to reel her in for a mostly chaste kiss, making her laugh. "He's absolutely right, though. You're stunning. And now let's leave, please, we're running late already.” 

He inclines his head at you from behind her back, relaxed and easy. No grudges held. “Have fun, and don't overstay your bedtime."

"You, too."

They're not quite out of the door when Will calls out for you to _hurry up, Uncle Harold, you must help me find more blankets_ , and you push your sleeves up, smiling.

You've got a hobbit hole to build.

 

#

 

It's well past midnight when they return, Nathan sneaking upstairs to check on Will, while Alicia joins you where you stand in front of her latest batch of photographs, a series of black and white shots still fixed to a length of string for drying.

"Did you have a good time?"

"The best. In a long time. Thank you so much for watching Will." Up close, she's a hint of bergamot and cypress in your nose, her hug a warm and delicate thing. There's a hesitation in it, a moment of indecision, a fine thread of _is there something wrong_ spun out wordlessly from her to you.

"Come by, if you like, for a quiet cup of tea, anytime," murmured into your ear like a secret, a token of her concern, and for a second, it's Grace all over again, your helplessness spread out over the safety of your friends' kitchen table, things already run down beyond repair. It swirls through you like a bitter taste, but you make yourself nod, small and quiet, a motion so minute she might as well have missed it.

"These are very good, Alicia." You silently curse the softness of your voice, that tiny catch of vulnerability to it.

She steps back with her hand running lightly down the length of your arm and a soft intake of breath that's very nearly lost among the tinkling of her earrings as she moves.

"Yes, they turned out rather well, didn't they?"

She's always been better about giving you space than Nathan.

“I think I like this one best,” and you reach out slowly, careful not to disturb the long line of pictures dangling from wall to wall.

A silhouette of a gangly runner, gracefully emerging from the mist of the early fall morning, focused in his forward motion, the world fallen away from him for the length of his run. The shape and lines of him oddly familiar, like maybe you could know him, could make out the high rise of a sharply cut cheekbone if only he weren't so far away.

"He does look a bit like John, don't you think?" Her voice very soft, pensive, and she can't know what you think; she can't.

You almost hand it back to her when she insists you have it as a present, something perhaps to lighten up the mood of your study. Except you don't really want to, and what reason could you possibly offer now for not keeping it?

So you do take it with you, stashed away in the inner pocket of your jacket where your heart drums out its treacherous beat against it.

 

#

 

Back at home, you sit down on your couch, drawn back into the warm golden spill of your reading lamp, the softness of its shadow like a blanket around you. Too wired to sleep yet, you pick up the slim book sitting on the coffee table next to you, starting to read where it falls open, but your thoughts keep going astray, getting stuck in the inside pocket of your jacket. With a small sigh you take out the picture and look at it, carefully evening out the small creases at its edges.

You think about putting it up on the wall, in one of all those empty picture frames you own now, but you know you can't, because of what it would mean. So you'll keep it right here under the cover of your favorite book, secret and safe, and that means something, too.


	4. October (II)

Will's head keeps lolling against your shoulder when it's time for bed, but like most kids his age, he puts up a struggle, offering up a myriad of reasons why he can't go to bed just yet, and besides, it only looks like I'm tired, Uncle Harold, really, which he mumbles around a huge, drawn-out yawn. Nathan finally placates him with the promise of sending you after him, to take over his good-night routine once he's finished brushing his teeth.

“That'll take a while,” Nathan says, watching his son stop several times to pick up this toy and that on his way to the bathroom. There's a fondness in his voice that makes you smile: Nathan Ingram, IT pioneer and once daredevil party-goer, besotted with his five-year-old son.

In keeping with your age-old tradition, he offers to open up a bottle of expensive red wine while you wait, and how about you give me another chance at beating you at chess, Harold.

You watch him set the pieces on the board, carefully one by one, and enjoy the taste of that wine, smooth and slightly oaky, with an underlying sweetness that rounds it off nicely.

“Can I ask you something, Harold?” He's stopped preparing the board, one piece still suspended in mid-air, like the thought's just crossed his mind. You're wary of his look, careful of it to a degree that makes you want to tell him no. But he's your friend, and surely he won't encroach on a subject you're unwilling to discuss.

“Sure.”

“You've seemed distracted lately.” That's not a question, but you keep the words to yourself, sharp and bitter on your tongue. “Like something's on your mind. Or someone, maybe.”

“Nathan--” You put down your glass, the wine sloshing about, not quite spilling over the rim, but close. Nathan sets the bishop down and splays his hands over the table, a pleading look on his face.

“Look, Harold, I can see it's upsetting you, and if it's just propriety you're concerned about, there is a thing called discretion--”

If he were anyone else, you might just tell him to shut the hell up, you blundering idiot, but he's Nathan, still your friend of over a decade, and somewhere under his bluster he means well, and so you just rise from your seat, stiff with tension.

“I think I've been neglecting my duties as a godparent. If you'll excuse me, I'll go look after Will.”

"Harold." The look he gives you is long and calculating; he's struggling with himself, weighing his options. You watch him, unrelenting, and he acquiesces with a sigh, affording you another reprieve. "Don't let him rope you into reading his book more than once."

 

#

 

It's when Will breaks his arm falling off a tree in kindergarten that you learn of John's hidden talent.

Having gotten over the initial shock of not being invincible, Will seems infinitely proud of his cast, showing off to you the countless little drawings and signatures scrawled all over it. One of them stands out, for being more refined, and depicting in just a few simple lines a little boy on top of an apple tree, laughing out at the world. Underneath it, John signed the broad sprawl of his name.

"He also gave me a real picture, Uncle Harold," and you can't help the little laugh slipping out at the sight of Will dressed up as a hobbit, hairy feet and all, smiling and cozy in his hole in the ground. It's a small treasure; you take it in as though to commit it wholly to memory, a glimpse of John that, otherwise, you might have never known.

“That's really sweet, halfling,” you say, kissing the top of his head, happy for him, “I hope you remembered to thank John for it.”

“Of course I did!” He looks at you like he honestly can't believe you said that, and you bite back your smile, mindful of not hurting his sense of honor.

“Yes, of course.”

“He gave me another picture, too,” he says, reaching for a stack of papers on the far side of the kitchen table. “He didn't want to at first. He said he wanted to keep it for himself because he liked it too much but,” and he draws a deep breath, a little out of air for having talked too fast, “then he said I could show it to you if I wanted to.”

It's you, in front of the blackboard, looking back at the class over your shoulder, one arm raised with a piece of chalk in your hand, your eyes animated, captured in mid-explanation. Your tie the merest bit askew, and you remember that day, how you kept fiddling with your collar because you'd dressed too warmly.

He'd noticed, and brought it to paper in fine detail.

“Is this what you look like when you're teaching, Uncle Harold?”

“Apparently I do, halfling.” You have to clear your throat, swallowing against a sudden tightness you can't quite explain. There's a sense of wonder in your voice, far more profound than Will's innocent questions warrants, but he is too young to notice, and you too enraptured to reign it in.

You trace a hesitant finger along the edge of the sheet, humbled by John's vision of you. It's almost like looking at a stranger, younger and more vibrant than the man you're used to seeing in the mirror.

Someone a man like John could be attracted to.


	5. November (I)

The first days of November blow over campus with a cutting chill, bringing in its wake a fine dusting of frost that makes the ground crunch under your feet, like a furtively whispered promise of snow.

Training is moved indoors, but you still come by your bench every once in while, huddled tightly in your winter coat, a thickly knit scarf wrapped around your neck. As though by some unspoken agreement, John is part of the stubborn few who still do their laps out on the tracks, his breath steaming about him as he plows on, eyes ahead, and if he's aware of your presence at all, then maybe it shows in a slight decrease of his pace as he passes you by.

You don't look up from your reading as he does, not as such, but you pause in mid-sentence, or in the process of turning your page, and revel in the small burst of warmth that washes over you, short-lived and frivolous as it may be.

You shiver, just a little, but you don't feel as cold anymore.

 

#

 

Nathan doesn't bring him up again, but you see it lurk in the corner of his eyes whenever you talk to him, a poorly hidden sliver of concern, a misguided desire to have you pour out your heart to him.

Things have settled, reached a fragile state of equilibrium, and that's all you could have ever asked for.

As far as you're concerned, there's nothing to talk about.

 

#

 

It's just a small gathering of friends and colleagues, Nathan says when he invites you to the Ingrams' dinner party, and telling him no isn't even a remote possibility.

The food is delicious, and you actually know everybody attending, including John, it turns out, who is part of a group of students Alicia invited to have someone to relive her old days on the track and field team with, she tells you with a bright smile. It dims by just a smidgen when she leans in to whisper 'I hope this is all right' into your ear, and you nod, since it's a fait accompli anyway, and why should it bother you in the first place?

It doesn't, but you keep your distance all the same, pausing just once in a doorway to admire how lovely he looks in a black suit with matching tie, the dark blue a little too conservative perhaps, unlike the deep, rich burgundy you've chosen for yourself. It does set off his eyes nicely, though, making them brighter, more open, and you have to cover with a cough when he catches you staring, an unmistakable shine of amusement in his eyes, and something darker, more alluring underneath that makes your mouth go dry.

You excuse yourself to slip upstairs, for a drink of water and a chance to clear your head in the seclusion of Nathan and Alicia's ensuite bathroom, staring at yourself in the mirror, your mouth set in a grim line.

Get a grip for heaven's sake, Harold.

You loosen your tie for a few deep breaths, grateful to be free for a while of the tight confines of your collar, and step out into the bedroom, wondering if it will ever feel normal to be in the same room with him, like it did for all of an hour, when he sat on your couch, discussing his studies, his academic career with you.

You can't imagine.

Worse even, you don't want to.

A soft knock on the door startles you; you turn, and there is John, slipping into the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

“Are you all right?” he asks, halting and low, with that coy dip of his head, like maybe he thinks he's overstepping by expressing his concern for you.

“I'm good,” you say, entirely caught up in the loveliness of him, the uncertainty of his approach.

“I'm glad.”

Why are you here, you want to say, why have you followed me, but your answer is already there, in the way he's looking at you from underneath the curl of his lashes, and you wonder, frantic with the thought, if he has any idea how seductive, how sweetly tempting that is.

"I saw your sketch of me," you blurt out. "It's very good. Flattering, even."

"I didn't mean to flatter," he says, raising his eyes from the tips of your shoes to your face, the sudden intensity of his gaze nearly breaking you. "You don't need it."

"John." Your voice is trembling, catching around the sound of his name in a warning, or maybe an invitation; you can't tell the difference anymore.

"I really like you in that suit," he whispers.

Distance becomes inconsequential as he steps close, slowly sliding his fingers through your hair to cup the back of your head, drawing you near. You moan before he's even touched his mouth to yours, and he gasps, pushing close, his restraint burned away, his kiss wild and utterly unrefined, fueled by hunger and a need kept at bay for far too long.

You should stop him, say something like surely there must be someone your age, but he steals the words away with his mouth on yours, the hard press of his body undulating against you, and the incessant slide of his hands where they've sneaked under your shirt.

"I have thought about touching you like this," he confides, a breathy whisper that leaves you mindless, drunk on his words, his kisses, the fevered touch of his hands on your skin.

"John," you say, like an entreaty, desperate for him, "you shouldn't, you mustn't," but you reach your hands around him all the same, bunching your fingers in his shirt, ready to drag it loose from his pants, wanting so much to rake your fingers over his naked skin.

"But I have," he insists, his throaty words racing along the length of your spine like a burn, "only it's never been this good."

He kisses you, one hand threaded through your hair again to angle your mouth at his leisure, and you let him, shuddering and panting, his willing prey. You groan when he drags his other hand across your stomach, rubbing at the softness there, an exquisite tease of up and down and up again, before he moves on, further down, reaching for the buckle of your belt.

“Harold,” he gasps, and it's the first time you've heard him say your name, say it like _that_ , and it's a shocking rush of intimacy that stings and burns and chills you. It hits you, then, where you are, and what you're doing, what you're about to do, and you grab his hand where it still rests on your belt, your grip tight and unrelenting as you fight for your breath, for some clarity of mind.

"No, no, I'm sorry, I never meant to, _oh_ \--" And it's not very clear at all, rushed out under your breath as it is, but it's the best you can do, under the circumstances.

You drop his hand and step away from him, from the expression on his face, an unexpected bloom of guilt passing over it like a shadow.

"Sorry," he says, rough and low, his head bent not quite away from you, "I'm very sorry, I shouldn't have--"

Looking back at you now, chagrined, and perhaps stunned, too, by how far things have spiraled out of control. How far you've let them go. You raise a hand and he falls silent, wretched and lost, and you know you've corrupted him, tainted him in some crucial way by allowing any of this to happen.

"Don't, no, it's not your--" You begin to say, but your voice fails you, too small suddenly for everything you want to say to him. Everything you should.

“I think I'd better go now,” is all that will come out, and John nods, silent, his hands hanging by his side, the awkward slump of his shoulders making you want to slide your hands along it, to smooth out the strain of his tension.

You leave before you can even think about giving in to this ill-advised fancy.

 

#

 

The darkness of Nathan's study is close and suffocating, but you don't mind, sunk into one of the big leather armchairs, your hands clasped in your lap.

You can tell exactly when everything began to go wrong, and how, and why, but that doesn't change anything, doesn't take away from the damage you've done.

You think about lines drawn and promises made, pointless and broken in the face of your weakness.

It doesn't matter that he came to you, that he kissed you, uncovering for himself the depth of your depravity.

What matters is that you didn't stop him, not in time, selfishly instilling in him a sense of hope, of mutuality.

What matters is that even now, in spite of everything, somewhere deep down you still have the gall of nursing that very same hope.

From the far corner, the great grandfather clock chimes out eleven o'clock, marking the passing of half an hour. If no one has started to look for you yet, they soon will, and so you rise, and make your way back downstairs, excusing yourself under the pretense of a severe headache.

It happens to be not too far from the truth.

 

#

 

Snowfall sets in the night before your first class of the fresh week, lulling the world into a hush, still and white.

He doesn't show, isn't there among all those heads ducked so busily over their notes. It's a relief, you tell yourself, but your apprehension doesn't lift, that tight knot in your chest refusing to unravel. Your heart like a stone in your chest, heavy and about to be crushed under its own weight.

Such a relief, indeed.

 

#

 

It doesn't stick, that first onrush of winter, and from underneath the snow emerges a world that's been bled of its color, everything awash in gray and brown.

Perhaps he's fallen sick, you think, when he's missing from another class, his place filled by one of his friends, who doesn't bother to take many notes.

You haven't been to the field for over two weeks, couldn't bring yourself to go, so you have no means of knowing if he's skipped training as well, or if his absence is exclusive to your lectures.

Either way, it's not like you could blame him.

Bereft of any reason to put yourself out in the cold, you spend your afternoons in your study, with a cup of tea and a book to occupy your mind, and most of the time, that works out well enough.

In fact, you only cave once, setting aside your book of choice to reach for the volume that still sits on your coffee table, small and inconspicuous.

You don't take the picture out, just look at it, grazing your fingers lightly over the glossy surface.

There he is, right under the tips of your fingers, more distant than ever.

It may just be the once, but you sit there staring for a long time, until a painful stiffness in your shoulders forces you to move.

You haven't felt so lost in your life.


	6. November (II)

The gloom of dusk has already begun to settle over campus when your last appointment of the day ends, your office somber, more confined for the dim luster filtering in through the high windows, the shadows growing thicker in the corners where the gleam of your desk lamp doesn't reach.

Most of the afternoon has slipped past unheeded, your office hours spent with ceaseless variations of the same conversation, heartfelt entreaties for deadline adjustments mingled with flimsy excuses for skipping too many classes. Barely enough to distract you, focus your thoughts to keep you from endlessly prying apart that night at Nathan's, prod and poke at the confusion that lies at the core of it all, your way lost in a maze of _shouldn't, mustn't, but oh how I want._

Keep you, too, from acknowledging that the quiescent sense of longing that so insistently tugs at you, spun into your everyday thoughts like a fine thread, means nothing less than that you miss him. Enough so to make you contemplate to seek him out; find him and see if there's anything left to be salvaged from the wreck of your good intentions.

Anything seems better than not seeing him at all.

The door to your office opens slowly, its telltale creak making you look up; if there's been a knock you didn't notice, sunk as you were into your thoughts.

“John.”

He peeks in around the door, his hair tousled, his expression a peculiar mix of contrition and determination.

"I'm sorry to disturb, but do you have a minute?"

It shouldn't be such a rush of delight, seeing him here in your office. But it is, and you push back your chair as though to rise but then you don't, because for a second, you don't know what to do with yourself.

"Of course, do come in."

You watch him step around the door, carefully pushing it shut behind him, his shoulders tense where they rest against the wood.

Safety in distance.

Somehow you don't think it's for his sake. 

“I've missed you in class.” It's a far cry from what you intended to say. Far less neutral. Far more honest, too.

“I thought you might want some space. After what happened.”

He stays by the door, his face reminiscent of the last time you saw it, save for the tentative smile that softens his expression today, that makes you hope that in spite of it all, he's happy to see you, too.

“For what it's worth, I'm very sorry for leaving you standing like that.”

You do rise to step around your desk, feeling an irrepressible need to diminish the distance between you, to somehow make him see how much you mean it. John nods, and you can see him relax, the sharp lines of tension in his neck and shoulders smoothing themselves out, his eyes steady on yours, soft with an apology of his own.

“I didn't mean to rush you. I got carried away, and I shouldn't have.”

He means it as much as you do, his remorse revealed in a small, unwitting sweep of his hands, and you wish, for his sake so much more than yours, that you could go back and do things differently.

“It was a reckless thing to do, for both of us. We must be wary of the consequences this,” you pause to indicate the both of you, the depth that has unfolded between you, that you don't know how to name, not now, and maybe not ever, “might entail. You're my student, and I'm your teacher. We have to respect that. It's all we should be.”

All you can be, really, but it sounds too harsh in your mind, too irrevocable, precluding the possibility of anything else, anything more, and try as you might, you can longer make yourself think of him like that; just another student, one among many, a face in the crowd.

“If that's what you want.” His voice is doubtful, like he's still thinking about whether or not he's going to acquiesce to your words. If he's going to give in, and let himself be swayed by your argument, lending a greater weight to your concern than to the finespun craving that lingers in every angle, every syllable between you.

“It's what I think is right.” He looks at you like he might argue, thrilling you with a challenging glint in his eyes, a silent dare. _It's not what you want._ You hold his gaze, unmoving; hold your breath, too, until you're dizzy with it, until you're hanging by a thread, so very tempted to have this, have _him_ , and burn yourself on stolen encounters, secret kisses, all consequences be damned.

“I want you to come back to class.” You make your voice soft and calm, reasonable, so very much unlike the tension crackling under your skin, very barely kept at bay.

It's such a small request in comparison that John doesn't have to give it a thought, and you find your breath again as he nods, his decision easy.

“I will. I've missed your lectures.” There's the merest bloom of color in his cheeks, like he meant to say something else, and caught himself at the last second. You ache for that other sentence, that thing he doesn't want to tell, but you don't press, and merely step closer to properly express your gratitude for him reaching out to you.

“Thank you for coming here.” For generously making that first step, when really, it should have been me.

“It's nothing,” he murmurs, bashful, his gaze flicking to his hands, avoiding your eyes. It's not; it's that much more, and what a woefully bad liar he is.

Your gaze drops to his waist, to the hem of his dress shirt where it sticks out from under his sweater in an untidy bunch. You wonder if maybe he changed in a hurry after training, fast and haphazard, determined to see you today, and set things right again.

“Your shirt's become unstuck,” you whisper, though there's no reason for your voice to fail you. Most certainly not the way he looks at you now, his eyes dark and wide as they meet yours, his head bent toward you, the curve of his neck so alluring you want to fit your hand to it, feel his pulse race under your palm.

You both reach out at the same time; one moment you're merely standing too close, your hands in a tangle with his, the next you're kissing, sweet and slow like molasses. Then John presses close, making tiny noises under his breath, his mouth insistent on yours, and for a moment, it's that first kiss all over again, that same overwhelming urge to have everything and here and now, but this time, you know better.

“Easy,” you murmur, “ _shh_ ,” until he's calm and pliant under your hands, under your mouth, letting you kiss him with infinite tenderness, all light and gentle. You mean to stop it, unravel yourself from the possessive curl of his embrace, the addictive warmth of his kiss, but you take forever to find the will, and gather your strength.

“This can't happen again,” you say, not really stepping back, not far enough for it to mean anything, your voice low and thick with regret.

“It can't,” he says with an unmistakable lilt of inquiry, his tone rising at the end, like a question, like a plea. And how could you have expected him to believe your words, when they didn't even convince yourself.

He leans back against the door, slowly so as not to startle you, carefully pulling you with him, and you follow, content to have him hold you, captive by consent, his face burrowed in your hair, his breathing muffled to a soft, snuffling sound. The vee of his shirt falls open right next to your mouth, the warm scent of his skin rising to your nose, and you never want to move again, or else at least allow yourself the illusion that this won't have to end.

Never isn't yours to have, and you're almost glad that John's the one to break the moment, his lips grazing your hair as he speaks, one arm slung about your shoulders, the fingers of his free hand twined lightly with yours. 

“Do you want me to leave?”

And there's the problem right there: you don't; but you need him to, even if your every touch, your every glance have told him otherwise. You're a terrible liar yourself. 

“Just a moment.” You pull back enough to inspect him, assess the readily visible damage you've wrought. With a small smile, you smooth your fingers through his hair, over his cheeks, his mouth, your thumb lingering about the silky softness of his lips. They curve lightly under your touch, parting for you, leaving you breathless, unwilling to let go. “There. Perfectly presentable.”

“Are you sure?”

If there's any resisting the softly entreating tone of his voice, the honey warmth of his husky murmur, you certainly don't have it in you. You repeat your caress, more thoroughly this time, until his eyes slip shut with pleasure.

“Please,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and then another, and then one more, following the contented curve of his lips all the way to where he wants you. “Please, be on your way now.”

"Okay," he says, and silently lets you fix his shirt before you slip away from him, your skin still flushed with his warmth.

“I'll see you in class?”

“ _Yes_ , professor.”

The way he says it, so low you have to strain for the words, his eyes cast down demurely, shouldn't make your gut clench so exquisitely with want, a potent burst of lust that makes you pinch your mouth around a small groan, to keep it contained, hidden from him, if scantly so.

There's a flicker of recognition in his eyes, the faintest shine of anticipation, and you think he must know that the next time you have him this close, you're not going to let go again. You no longer know how to make yourself want to.

 

#

 

There's a haze over the world when you wake up early in the morning, the light a blush of rose and coral, tinged with gold where it glistens along the fine gossamer threads that stretch in delicate bows from branch to branch, ephemeral and beautiful, too fragile to last.

You half rise to peer out at the tranquility of it, the tips of your fingers cold where they lie against the window, and with a contented sigh you sink back to luxuriate in the remnant warmth still lingering under the covers.

Sleep reaches out to pull you back under, your body warm and drowsy with its call, the last fragments of a faraway dream still drifting lazily through your mind. A familiar scent, a muffled sound, intricately mingled with a faint stirring of desire. Too pleasant to resist, too sweetly alluring to let go.

A knock on the front door, low but persistent, draws you back, until you're grudgingly awake, and curious enough to see who's there.

John stands in your doorway with a paper bag in his hand, one corner of his mouth turning up at seeing you like this, shivering in your dressing gown, your hair sticking out this way and that. He, in turn, is a gorgeous sight, his cheeks aflush with cold, the color bringing out the bright shine of blue in his eyes. His hair slightly damp, like he hurried out of the shower to be here so early, his fingers clutching tightly at the fold of the bag, the shy dip of his head more pronounced than ever.

“I woke you.” You'd think he were sorry, if not for the teasing slant of his mouth, like he's secretly pleased to have caught such an intimate glimpse of you.

“No, no. I just hadn't got around to getting up yet.”

He nods, accepting your polite evasion. In his hands, the paper bag rustles as he grips it even more tightly, his shoulders curling slightly with a subtle flicker of tension.

“There's this little bakery just off campus, they have these really good cinnamon buns, fresh out of the oven. They're perfect for breakfast. I thought--” He cuts himself off with a sharp little intake of breath, his gaze dropping, as though he's thinking about reaching out, touching his fingers to yours. You follow his eyes, then briefly glance at his hands, his fingers so very nervous where they graze the fold of the bag. After a moment, he looks back up, very still, his eyes warm and dark with a careful gleam of longing. “Can I come in?”

It's a simple enough question, really, and with the way he's looking at you, so vulnerable in his hope, it's becoming increasingly easier to let yourself forget why this could be a bad idea.

Somewhere behind him, at some distance, a couple is strolling by, their dog dashing about in between the great heaps of leaves piled high next to the path. Perhaps they know you, perhaps they don't. With John here on your doorstep, at such an early hour, you realize it has already ceased to matter. If he's made that decision for himself, for everyone to see, then so can you. It was only ever him you wanted to protect.

You step aside to open the door further, allowing for him to slip past. There isn't much room to begin with and you don't go out of your way to give him any more, brushing close as you shut the door behind him. Safely inside, you burrow your nose against the side of his neck, breathing him in, and he lets you, perfectly pliant, the bag dropping from his fingers as you divest him of his jacket, quiet and gentle.

It's not even the beginning of a kiss, the way you skim your lips over his, curling your fingers in his hair, a caress so delicate and tender it makes his hands clutch at you where they lie chastely on your waist.

“Why do you keep coming back?” You ask, still suspended in that near kiss. You can guess at his reasons, but for this, you and him, you need to be sure.

“Because I want to.” He drags his thumb over the crest of your hip, angling his head to bring your lips closer to his. “Because I think we want the same thing.”

You make him groan with the airiness of your kiss, the slow and sensuous drag of your lips over his. His hands quiver when you guide them to the sash of your gown, inviting him to undo the loose knot and slip his hands around your waist. He's curbing his urgency for you, and you're dazed with his compliance, indulging you in your leisurely seduction of him.

You push a little closer, cradling his face in your hands, shaken by the wide open intensity in his eyes.

“The bed's still warm,” you whisper.

You make a feast out of the simple act of undressing him, reigning in the burn of your desire, electrified by the way he grows increasingly impatient, pushing himself up against you, restless, snatching heated kisses from your mouth, groaning with satisfaction when you pause to rest your weight on him, exhausted by his persistence.

You take your time with him, slow, so slow, making him last until he's trembling with it, his thighs wrapped around you, demanding and tight, urging you faster, deeper, now now now.

He breaks with your name on his lips, and you let yourself follow, lost in the way he tenses and shudders around you, the heat of him where he strains and pulses, pressed against the faint swell of your stomach and the hard muscle underneath.

Later, when your pulse has eased itself back into a more moderate rhythm, he lies with his legs entangled with yours, his mouth parted around a breathless smile. The dearest sight you've seen in a long time, and your heart stumbles with it, caught up in the depth of your affection for him.

“We should do this again,” he says, running his fingers along the length of your thigh, his eyes still darkened with a low burn of desire.

“Maybe in a minute.”

“I _meant_ \--” He pushes his shoulder off the bed to lend some urgency to his point, but you pull him back down, your hand curved lightly around his arm.

“I know what you meant.” You kiss him, your lips soft on his, the lightness of your touch making him nip at your mouth until you kiss him more firmly, your fingers trailing the side of his face, lingering and slow. “I never wanted this for you. The secrecy.”

“It doesn't have to be a secret.” He looks almost mutinous, and you bite back a smile at the careless passion of his youth.

“People would talk. Put a taint on your accomplishments.”

He's unconvinced, you can tell, and utterly unconcerned for himself. But not, it seems, for you.

“What about you?”

“I've never felt a need to hide myself for looking past someone's gender,” you say, stroking your thumb over his cheek. “Or their age, for that matter. But to see your integrity harmed, your degree called into question for being with me... I couldn't stand the thought.”

His fingers draw loose circles on your skin, his mouth pursed while he's pondering your words.

“So what, we keep things low profile?” It shouldn't stir your hope like it does, his insistence to be with you again, his readiness to accept your concern for him; this hint at something other perhaps than a continued string of flings, at something deeper, and entirely more meaningful.

“For the time being.” You kiss his brow, delighting in the sweet flush of warmth and anticipation in your chest, a tender swirl of desire and want.

“I could drop your class. Pick it up again next term with someone else.”

He brings his lips to that place behind your ear that he discovered makes you moan for him, halting and hushed, his hand trailing over your chest in the lightest of touches, as though undecided yet whether to tease or arouse.

“You'll be busy enough as it is.” Your body has made its decision, and the throaty rasp of your voice makes him smile into your skin, his tongue darting out to lap at the small dip behind the shell of your ear, again and again, until your desire blazes like a fever under your skin. You grab the back of his head to pull him closer, make him slide his body on top of yours, all heat and lean muscle and sinfully flushed skin.

“Yeah? Do you plan on keeping me busy?” His hand finds the inside of your thigh, resting there, his fingers spread out over the sensitive skin, the slide of his palm languid and tantalizing.

“Maybe,“ you gasp, letting your head drop back into the pillow to give him free reign of your throat, humming under the eager heat of his mouth, your fingers threaded tightly through his hair, his path yielding easily under your guidance. When you pull him back up to your mouth he comes willingly, all yours to direct, and you grunt into his kiss, lightheaded with his pliability.

He doesn't let you come up for air for a long time, and when he does, he's grinning, his eyes deeply warm with mirth.

“You know, I think that minute must be over.”

It is, much faster than you anticipated, and this time, you're the pliant one, seconds and minutes blending into one until the warmth of his laughter in your ear unexpectedly pushes you over, your body shaking with the force of your release, your chest aching with a fierce swell of tenderness for him. You cling to him, confused for a moment by the stinging in your eyes, the unmistakable prickling of tears and you blink them back, angry, because this is a moment of joy, not sadness.

"It's okay," John whispers, pulling you close and into the cradle of his body, nuzzling at your face, your neck, everywhere he can reach. "I've wanted this for a long time, too."

You stay like this until slumber claims you both, cozy and sated under the covers, the morning perfect, and still again.


	7. December (I)

When you step outside late in the afternoon, the air is thick and gray with a tumble of huge, opalescent flakes, their edges glinting where they catch a rare glimmer of light, quietly drifting toward the ground, already richly cushioned under half a day's worth of snowfall.

It's not entirely accidental that you arrive a few minutes early for your weekly game of chess with Nathan; not quite a coincidence also that John's stayed past his tutoring session with Alicia to chase Will about the snow covered front lawn, Will at a dreadful disadvantage, sunk as he is to his knees in the clinging white sludge. John makes a point of not letting him feel it, stumbling and laughing as he dodges Will's defense of surprisingly well-aimed snowballs.

“He's very good with Will,” Nathan says, smiling as a particularly loud peal of laughter from his son overlays the soft hiss and crackle of the wood burning in the fireplace. The look he gives you from behind his cup of mulled wine is almost furtive, and perhaps his most inconspicuous effort at probing your mood since you've known him. It feels like a peace offering, the way he's opening your conversation, leaving it to you to direct its course as you will. Deflect or accept, and either way it will be fine.

“I care about him,” you say, the words coming all the more easily for Nathan's mellow approach, and you never expected to feel so relieved with their weight out in the open. “I really do.”

“It's not casual, then.”

You can tell he's not surprised, and maybe he's known all along, and that's why you refused so adamantly to listen to him before.

“Not on my part, no. That aside, I don't know what it is.” You glance down into your cup, the dark reddish gleam of the wine, the fine twirl of steam rising from it.

“The last time I saw that look on your face, things got pretty serious. Did you tell him?”

You wouldn't know what, or how, with things so new, so uncertain between you; when you haven't even talked about when next to see each other, or where, or under what circumstances. 

“We've reached an understanding, of sorts.”

“So you didn't.” He sighs, and you hide your smile at his apparent frustration. Nathan's never been one for evasion, for subtle workarounds, always tackling life's challenges head-on. “And you think that'll work out?”

“Time will tell.”

He taps the side of his mug, pensive, and you know he's about to tell you that just for once, you should cast aside your cautiousness, your tendency to let things run their course and take a damn risk already if you think it's worth it, Harold.

“Don't let another good thing pass you by, my friend. The world won't stop to wait for you. It has a sad tendency to do that, but then you know that already, don't you.”

Yes, you guess you do. Those last months in Boston have suitably impressed that point on you. He's right, as he most often is if you care to accept his advice, and you nod, and don't make a fuss when he tips up your cup.

That still doesn't mean you will rush things, though.

“Thank you,” you say, and Nathan smiles, his hand hesitating briefly over the box with the chess pieces inside.

“You're welcome. As always. And now let me get the board ready.”

He's more focused on the game than you, your attention split between the movement of the pieces on the board and the cheerful sounds from outside, but you still beat him, if far less distinctly than usual. Nathan calls it a close draw, and you smile at the way he relishes in his improvement, never mind your obvious distraction.

When the front door opens to admit Will and John, their clothes soggy and encrusted with snow, Nathan leans toward you, resting his hand on the arm of your seat.

“I almost forgot. Would you mind watching Will again on Friday? There's this fancy affair at the School of Arts, we've been invited and Alicia would really love to go. Unless you have other plans, of course?”

Your gaze flickers to John, who's still standing in the doorway, careful not to make a ruin of Alicia's polished hardwood floor as he helps Will disentangle himself from his thick winter coat, and the stubborn snare of his frozen scarf. You haven't made any plans, not yet; and surely the week is long enough to accommodate an opportunity or two for you to meet.

“Of course I don't mind. I'll be happy to help.”

Nathan sees you out just as the street lights are coming on, their warm glow like small islands in a sea of lengthening shadows. You walk from one to another, and if John accompanies you for a while, it's only because you happen to go in the same direction. Student and professor, engaged in light conversation, the occasional tangle of your fingers well hidden in the failing light.

 

#

 

Monday marks your last senior class of the year, and given the date, and the pre-holiday workload you remember so well from your own days of study, you go easy on your students, keeping the subject matter light, offering a concise summary of everything you've covered so far.

Halfway into your lecture, another bout of snowfall sets in, stealing most of the morning's light, the sky muted and pale over the swirl of white in the air. When you look back at your class, your gaze passes over John, an expression of utter absorption on his face, his eyes on the busy scrawl of his pencil on the page.

He's sketching, you realize, and perhaps you should take offense at his inadvertent slight, but you don't, turning your eyes elsewhere, making a note of asking him later if maybe he'll show some of his drawings to you, and this one in particular, curious to find out what captured his attention today. In no way do you think about how your request might cause him to blush, if ever so slightly, making him look entirely endearing in his bashfulness.

When everyone files out at the end of the class, you keep your eyes on your notes, smiling a little to yourself, the reason for your amusement for you alone to know.

And maybe John, if he happens to ask you about it.

 

#

 

With Christmas break just around the corner, you don't see much of each other, your week's schedule crammed with last minute appointments, social events, and papers to grade, so that when, after your very last class on Friday, John seeks you out in the classroom after everyone's left, you're so happy to see him you almost forget yourself, almost give in to the temptation of kissing him quickly on the mouth right where you are. Catching yourself in time, you beckon him into the cramped space of the adjacent storeroom instead, leaving the door ajar to be warned in time of any approaching noise.

He smiles, clearly amused by your surreptitiousness, and leans against a low shelf, the slight slump of his posture almost putting you at the same height.

“Come here,” he says, his voice low and inviting, his hand warm and sure around yours.

He pulls you close, your back to his chest, his arms sneaking around your middle so he can rest his hands on your stomach. You put your own over his, guiding them under your vest, where you can feel his touch much closer to your skin. There's something about being held by him that instantly soothes you, that makes you relax into him until you're gently buoyed back and forth on the rise and fall of his chest, like so many placid waves, rolling lazily against the shore. He trails his mouth along the line of your neck, your skin warmed by his lips, the heat of his breath flowing over you.

“There you are,” he murmurs, his mouth suspended right behind your ear. “I could do this all day, but I don't think you'd let me.”

A faint sound startles you, makes you strain your head away from him until he repeatedly kisses the side of your neck, his hands roaming over your chest and stomach in broad, calming strokes.

“Don't worry. My friend David is waiting for me in the hallway. I told him I wanted to have a quick word with you in private. He'll give us fair warning if anyone passes him.”

“He knows?”

It doesn't bother you, not really. If John trusts him to know, then so will you.

“Not as such. We've been roommates for more than three years. Friends for even longer than that. He can tell when something's up with me.”

“Do you have a history, with him?” It's easier to ask, with your eyes hidden from his.

“No. He's with a really nice girl, very much in love.” He brings his mouth to your ear again, whispering, as though afraid for anyone but you to hear. “You and Nathan?”

“Never.” You lean back into him, just a little, just enough for him to tighten his arms about you. "Not my type."

"Am I?" There's nothing artful about his coyness, or the slight catch of insecurity in his voice. You turn in his arms for your next words, so he can see your face, the depth of emotion in your eyes.

"More than that." You run your fingers over his cheek, cupping his chin, capturing his mouth to yours. "You're the loveliest thing in my life right now."

The kiss doesn't seem to want to end, either one of you chasing the other for one more lick, and taste, and small playful bite.

“I have to leave,” John eventually says, thoroughly out of breath, but clearly wistful, his fingers playing with the small buttons of your vest, one of them already undone. You could ask him to unfasten the others as well, and you know he would, and much more than that.

“Not just yet.” You pull him close again, slipping one hand under all the layers of his clothes to spread it out over his back, keeping him near, your touch tender, almost reverent; you then press small, loving kisses to his neck, burrowing your mouth under the neckline of his shirt, hooking your fingers in to carefully pull it down, allowing you to reach even lower, until he sighs and hums with pleasure, his hands rubbing delicately over your lower back.

You lift your head for a full kiss, teasing your way into it, brief little touches of your lips to his before you get more seriously invested, melting into him with a whimper, your fingers flexing restlessly over his spine, helpless with need.

He laps at your lower lip, then gently pulls it between his teeth to slide his tongue along the length of it, and you shudder under his hands, shaking with want. When he does it again, more deliberate this time, you moan, muffling the sound against his mouth, your fingers clutching at his shoulder to bring him closer.

“Come home with me,” you say, hoarsely, your words mingling with the heat of his mouth.

“I can't,” he says, his face to your neck, his lips moving over the heavy throb of your pulse. “I'm due to meet with my study group. Putting the final touches on our joint project. We'll be a few hours at least. But I could spend the night, if you'd like.”

“I'm watching Will tonight. There's no telling for how long.”

You sigh, long and low. How much you'd love to fall asleep under the sated sprawl of his body again. But there's no way you're going to ask him to sneak into your home and then wait up for you.

He finds your hand with his, stroking his thumb over the back of it, light and slow.

“Then come pick me up at the field tomorrow. Gym's like a bullpen, it's driving me crazy. So my team and I, we're going to do a few laps on the tracks. Way better preparation for the cross country on Sunday than any treadmill. Maybe you'd like to watch for a while. That's why I came by in the first place.” He trails his mouth up to your cheek, where it falls open in a smile. “I push myself harder when I know you're there.”

“Is that right.” His smile widens, and you steal another kiss from him, more flirtatious than anything. He was wrong, earlier, when he assumed you wouldn't let him do this all day.

“We'll be there in the late afternoon. Don't be too early. I'd hate for you to get cold.”

His whispered concern makes you smile, and though you've encroached on too much of his time already, you still close your eyes and lean in, sharing space, and breath, and warmth for just a few moments longer. When you move to step away, he follows for one more kiss, and you think of it as the one you wouldn't give him before, when he surprised you in class – a small outburst of emotion, a simple touch to express how much you've missed him, and how glad you are to see him again.

**Author's Note:**

> The last chapter may take a littler longer again. Until then, thank you for reading.


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